Chapter Eight
Sarah Gyve woke and stretched out a lazy hand to stroke the head of the iron collared slave kneeling on the mat beside her bed.
After ten years in Domain, every day was still a wonderful adventure for Sarah. True success comes from doing work that one enjoys and doing it well. Sarah knew that satisfaction. She could imagine no joy greater than that of molding personalities, turning the human clay of Domain into devoted slaves.
Before coming to Domain, she had run a house of domination in New York, but it had never been enough. She grew tired of businessmen who stopped by for an hour of discipline between appointments. That life had been the shadow. Domain was the reality. Here the slaves really served. They didn’t call a halt because things were running a little late, pay at the door, and go back home to the family. Commitment was total here. For Sarah, that was a complete turn on.
True, Domain’s cruelties had limits. It was never Sarah’s intention to turn the slaves who were entrusted to her into mindless robots. She didn’t want emotional cripples either. She wanted them to be proud of their surrender and glory in their gift of pain; so her discipline was meted out carefully, with an eye to the physical and emotional limits of her subjects. It was her intention to bend them to her will without breaking them.
It was real. The cold metal tight around Kim’s wrists brought that fact home with perfect clarity. When her bindings were secure, Kim was dragged out of her cell by three burly guards who propelled her down the hall to the room from where she heard the screams. They blindfolded her before they opened the door.
The room had been washed with disinfectant, and the smell reminded Kim of hospitals. Under that smell, almost masked by it, other odors lingered; urine, sweat, and fear. This is going to be bad, she thought. In spite of her resolve to be brave, her knees began to tremble and her bladder let go, spilling a warm stream down her leg.
They enclosed her hands in thumbless leather mittens with tight, padded cuffs. The fingertips of the mittens were outfitted with D rings attached to a hook over her head. She heard the ratchets of a winch clicking, and her hands rose high. Soon she was standing on her tiptoes. The clicking continued and she found herself swinging free, her toes unable to find the floor.
Her ankles were shackled and spread apart until her legs were carrying some of her weight, making the strain on her wrists and shoulders almost bearable.
She understood the mittens had been padded so the circulation in her hands was not restricted. That was not good news. It meant she could be left swinging there for some time without injury. The strain on her shoulders quickly became painful, and she knew a greater exposure and helplessness than ever before.
The men went to work on her.
Mistress Aldona’s duties were administrative, in spite of her title. Sarah was the one who actually trained the Class A female slaves who came to the training center. It was Sarah who met the slaves when they stretched out trembling hands to sign the contracts. It was Sarah who took them to the edge of panic with discipline harder than their dreams had anticipated, then mothered them back to acceptance of their condition.
So many slaves arrived with a little experience at weekend slavery, or maybe just a fantasy that they could no longer deny. What she gave them was a plunge into icy water. The training center was not a school, which taught the finer points of sexual submission. It was a boot camp, which destroyed old identities, belief systems, and values—offering new ones to replace them. The formula was really very simple, and had changed little since the inquisition converted heretics.
Kim dangled by her heels with her legs spread wide, like a carcass waiting for the butcher. The greased plug invading her anus was larger than the one she had worn yesterday, and she had been promised a larger one tomorrow. The inside of her thighs burned from recent whipping. The rush of blood to her head made her see stars behind the blindfold. She wondered how long they would leave her like this before she was changed to a new position.
She was never sure if she was alone at times like this, or if her torturers were watching her distress with feral eyes. She had been aware of a woman who came and went, sometimes directing the men, silently observing at other times. Whenever she was around the guards seemed to become more cruel and inventive.
She never saw who it was who came to bind her in positions both humiliating and uncomfortable. She never knew which hands worked the paddles and straps that scalded her buttocks when she was bound over a bench with her legs spread wide. She never saw the hard cocks that ploughed into her again and again, using all of her orifices; though she became familiar with the taste and feel of many. Sometimes it was a woman who used her, gripping her flanks with long nailed hands and driving a dildo in deep.
Terror was primary, Sarah mused, as she stroked the head of the slave beside her. The first step in the training of a new slave always involved terror. It saps the will. She would render the girl helpless, bind her fast until she could hardly wiggle, then show her the whip and promise her horrible pain.
The second step was to get the girl naked. Clothing identifies a person. It is a status disguise, a protection from the elements, a privacy screen against the eyes of the world. When that protection is literally ripped away, a slave had immediate knowledge of her new condition. Just depriving her of her wallet and purse was a potent psychological weapon, since so much of a modern woman’s identity is established by the little plastic cards she carries.
Naked and constantly observed, she lost all privacy. Normal bathroom functions were controlled. She urinated only with permission, and was punished for wetting herself. Enemas controlled her bowels. Plugs invaded her rectum and were strapped in with locking belts. The plugs served a dual purpose, teaching the slave that every part of her body belonged to her Masters and could be violated at will, and enlarging the opening so that the slave could be more easily used. The pain and humiliation of having swollen cocks and foreign objects thrust into her backside was devastating. There was no other invasion of her privacy so absolute. It was the ultimate rape.
Next came isolation. Every new slave started out with a two week stay in solitary confinement. Even the most impudent slave often reacted with tears of joy when her torturers finally came for her, so grateful was she for human contact.
Such joy was always short lived.
Pain was always the final persuader. Sarah liked to start out with simple things. She found the pain was more effective if it started small and gradually increased, otherwise the subject could go into shock and become numb to all sensation. A girl would eventually bargain away everything to avoid pain. It dissolved courage and pride. The tortures were many and varied, all designed to cause great pain without real injury. The purpose was to disorientate the victim, not disable her. Sarah would decide which techniques to use as she observed the slave’s reactions. Slaves left the training center with minor and temporary physical damage, but a completely altered mind.
It was at this point when Sarah’s true talents came into play. The slave was malleable and receptive to new truth. Class A slave 123 was now approaching that stage.
The thought of the girl brought Sarah sitting upright in bed. She had work to do, and it was work she expected to enjoy. CAS 123 had been a difficult case. Even after her lie was exposed she had persisted in telling it, even under torture. Only last week had she finally confessed.
Today she would begin the path to true slavery.
Kim drifted in and out, not so much sleeping and waking as passing out and coming to. The woman’s voice was always there, speaking out of the darkness beyond Kim’s blindfold. It was a calm, well-modulated voice, but it confused her.
The thin mattress Kim lay on was soaking wet, making her shiver. At first, she thought they had thrown the water on her to keep her awake. Later she realized that it was because water was a good conductor. The parts of her not in contact with the bed were drying now, making her welts tighten and itch.
She was manacled face up on an iron cot. Alligator clips bit into her labia, and a cold brass rod penetrated her anus. The insulated wires coming from these devices ran between her widespread legs and were connected to a transformer somewhere. The current had been stepped down. It would jolt her, send her muscles into spasms, and make her surge against the chains that held her; but it would not burn her flesh or stop her heart.
Sometimes, on the lower settings, the current would wring involuntary orgasms out of her. There was no satisfaction in these orgasms. They were like sneezes. It was just one more thing she no longer had control over.
The voice, the ubiquitous woman’s voice, soothed and reasoned, even while it brought pain.
“We are making progress.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Kim panted, hoping that it was a safe reply.
“What is your name?”
The simple question set her heart pounding. At first she had insisted that she was Kim Victor, knowing that response would make the transformer hum and the metal bite at her loins. Then, sobbing, she had confessed to a lie she never told, and said that she was Charlene Weaver.
“Wrong,” the voice had said, and the transformer had hummed again. You are CAS 123, a slave.”
“Yes, Mistress!”
Another surge, bad enough to make her scream.
“Say it.”
“I am CAS 123, a slave!”
“Excellent. Rest now. We will continue later.”
She had confessed to many things in the last few days, dredging up memories of petty thefts, thoughtless remarks, childhood cruelties, hearts she had broken, promises she had failed to keep. She would say anything to stop the pain. The confessor had forgiven her, speaking evenly in that motherly voice, but the pain always came back, and only talking would stop it. The same question was asked over and over, and the correct answer kept changing.
“What is your name?”
“Who are you?”
Sarah pressed the buzzer beside her bed and a naked man in a leather collar entered the room.
“Good morning, Mistress Gyve,” he said, looking down respectfully.
“Is breakfast ready, Jim?”
“Yes, Mistress. Shall I bring a tray?”
“No. I’m getting up. I’ll want my sleeveless uniform today. I’m going to need freedom of movement.”
As Jim helped her dress, Sarah looked down at the girl beside the bed. The girl had been trained to wake up just before her Mistress did, and assume the approved kneeling posture. Every morning when Sarah woke up, she found CAS 48, her personal slave, kneeling beside the bed with her knees apart and her eyes down, awaiting her Mistress’ pleasure.
Most days she would be invited up into the bed to do oral service for her Mistress. When she was very good, Sarah would do the same for her; though Sarah usually left that chore for another slave. Slaves never knew. Their pleasure or pain was subject to whim. Today, thoughts of the slave waiting at the training center had aroused the cruel side of Sarah’s nature.
“Jim,” she asked, “how long has it been since Forty-eight was whipped?” She was studying the girl as she spoke.
He was brushing Sarah’s hair, and the brush paused for a moment as he recalled. “About two weeks, Mistress.”
Forty-eight made no sound, but began to tremble slightly, and slow tears appeared below her long eyelashes.
“Have it attended to, please. Tell the Whipmaster to do her front and back, moderately hard; then have her thoroughly flushed and put on the bench. I want her available for the household staff.”
“Thank you, Mistress,” said forty eight softly. There was a tremor in her voice.
“Thank you, Mistress,” echoed Jim. His reply had more enthusiasm. He was a member of the household staff.
Sarah understood his delight. Leather collared slaves, like their sisters in silk, had low status compared to free citizens. They enjoyed seeing the punishment of those even lower than themselves. It was the same attitude poor white trash had toward black people in the old south. Jim, and the other members of Sarah’s staff, used every opportunity to degrade and humiliate the Class A slaves they dealt with. Sarah recognized this, and it amused her to let the staff attend while forty-eight was punished and grant them sexual use of the slave afterward.
She knew that after the Whipmaster had come and gone, Jim would be the first in line to bury himself to the hilt in the defenseless anus of forty eight. He was well endowed, and he would not be gentle. It would almost be worth staying home to see it, but duty called.